


17 Black

by missafterglow



Category: Harry Styles - Fandom, Larry Stylinson - Fandom, Louis Tomlinson - Fandom, One Direction (Band), liam payne - Fandom, niall horan - Fandom, zayn malik - Fandom
Genre: :(, Angst, Bottom Louis, Bullying, Coach Harry, Daddy Harry, Enemies to Lovers, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Footballer Louis, Harry Styles - Freeform, Homophobia, How tf does this work, Larry fanfic, Liam Payne - Freeform, Louis Tomlinson - Freeform, M/M, Multi, Niall Horan - Freeform, Player Louis, Slow Burn, Smut, Student Louis, Teacher-Student Relationship, Teacher/Student, Top Harry, Zayn Malik - Freeform, Ziam Mayne - Freeform, am i doing this right..., at this point im putting whatever pops up, barely legal louis, do these do anything, its barely there but it is HA, larry - Freeform, larry fanfiction, larry stylinson - Freeform, one direction - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-19
Updated: 2021-03-11
Packaged: 2021-03-15 15:42:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 6
Words: 17,883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29561391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missafterglow/pseuds/missafterglow
Summary: When sassy, stubborn high school football star Louis Tomlinson meets the new hard-ass team coach, Harry Styles, a heated rivalry sparks between the two and it is evident that the upcoming season is sure to be eventful.
Relationships: Harry Styles/Louis Tomlinson, I think that’s it so far HAHA, Zayn Malik/Liam Payne
Comments: 1
Kudos: 19





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> All credits to this fanfic go to larrys_fedora and frogface317 on Wattpad, the original fanfic (by larrys_fedora) is incomplete sadly :( BUT frogface317 as our saviour is completing it yay ! I thought i'd bring it here cause it's too amazing for it to not be shared, and it's almost selfish that others DON'T EVEN KNOW IT EXISTS ! Anyways...I hope you love it as much as I do. Okay bye now. :D

"God damn you, Tomlinson," Liam grunts as he hastily retrieves the football from the net.

Louis smirks and shrugs his shoulders, smoothly catching the ball out of the air with the lace of his foot as Liam throws it back out at him.

"Don't hate the player, hate the game," he smugly retorts, taking a touch before swinging his leg back and cleanly striking through the ball.

Liam dives to the side and snatches the ball out of the air before it hits the net. A good save, Louis has to admit.

"Not bad, Payno," he compliments, placing his hands on his hips. "Seems like you've been training lately."

Liam shrugs. "Got to be ready for tryouts this week," he explains, dropping the ball to the ground and rolling it with his feet. "Rumor has it that the coach this year is a true pain in the ass."

Louis snorts, rolling his eyes. "Nothing the Tommo can't handle."

"Yeah, only because you're used to having people be irritated by you," Liam counters with a chuckle.

"Whatever," Louis laughs. "I'm sure this coach can't be _that_ bad."

Liam kicks the ball into the sidelines, then strolls over to the bench and takes a seat, leaning his elbows on his knees.

"I dunno, mate. I heard that when he was coaching his former team, he made some kid run sprints until he puked, just because he was ten minutes late to practice."

Louis crosses his arms and cocks an eyebrow, albeit, impressed.

"That's pretty harsh, don't you think?"

Liam shrugs. "Told you he was a pain in the ass. Oh, shoot, I've got to go," he says suddenly, jumping up and scrambling for his backpack.

"Why?"

"Dinner," Liam explains, slinging the bag over his shoulders. "I'll see you tomorrow, yeah?"

"Yeah, see you then," Louis says, smiling.

Liam pats him on the back and turns to walk away. Louis just sits on the bench, watching his friend leave until he is already out of sight. He wonders how tryouts will go for him this year, and if the new coach is going to be as much of a prick that Liam made him out to be. He hopes not, because when Louis doesn't like someone, admittedly, he can be a little bit of a bitch sometimes. He's sassy and stubborn, not the type of person that you'd want to give a bad impression. Louis could be a real sweethart, though. He'll follow some rules, be nice if he has to. Just depends on the person, is all. If he has any luck at all, this new coach will be just like his old one: Louis' absolute, number one fan in the universe, and really easy to negotiate with. If things don't turn out in his favor, it'll be a rough season, for sure. Not just for Louis, but for the coach as well.

Last year, Louis was team captain. Star player, great athlete, best center midfielder in town. He was the coach's pet, and had gotten used to nothing less than complete favoritism throughout his whole high school career. Coach Hughes always had Louis leading warmups, organizing team work-outs, and starting all of the games. He played almost every minute of every match for the whole season, and he was never off his game. The loads of attention that came with his success in the sport wasn't unwelcome, but it was unusual for him at first. His childhood hadn't really offered him the same caliber of attention that he has been receiving for the last three years since he's been on this team, so it's been a change, to put it simply. He's doing well with it. The only thing is, Coach Hughes is leaving, so technically, Louis isn't guaranteed anything this year. He might not even keep his spot as captain, which before, seemed like a permanent title. It's a frightening thought to him, honestly. Louis is self aware, though-- he knows that he is a pretty good player, and easy to get on with for the most part. So how hard could it be to just simply win over this new, supposedly dick of a coach with the same charm he used on Hughes?

════ ❀.❋.❀ ════

[Day of tryouts]

Louis's eyes are glued on the second-hand of the clock in history class, watching as it slowly ticks past each mark. He taps his shoe against the tile floor, creating a dull tap that he would normally find annoying if anyone else was doing it, and chews on the eraser of his pencil, completely tuning out his teacher. Twenty more seconds, fifteen, ten, five... The bell sounds its metallic shrill and it's music to Louis' ears. He is already springing up from his chair, stuffing all of his books into his backpack carelessly. He sits in the back of the classroom, so he is last out of the door, merging into the current of hustling students who are all just as eager to leave school. Louis pushes past and squeezes between other bustling students, both giving and receiving dirty looks, until he finally reaches his locker. He spins the combination dial and unlocks it, snatching his gym bag and slamming it shut. Liam told him to meet him by the boys' locker room after school, so he heads in that direction as hurriedly as he can manage. Louis spots Liam strolling down the hallway, swinging his gym bag in his hands, a kind smile on his face as he approaches.

"Hey, man," Louis greets, grinning already at the sight of his friend.

Liam claps him on the back. "Hey, Tommo, ready for tryouts?"

"Yeah, yeah. Nervous. You?"

"Eh, I'm not too nervous," Liam smirks, following Louis into the locker room. "I'm the only goalkeeper trying out, so I think I'll be alright."

Louis scoffs. Liam, that lucky bastard. Maybe he should've been a keeper, after all. He tosses his bag down onto the bench farthest from where the majority of the team crowds. Every year, he's done that--tried to distance himself as much as possible from the group of annoying, over-confident jocks that he's been _blessed_ to have as teammates. None of them have never been Louis' favorites--for good reason--but it has worked out fine that way, since they didn't pay much attention to him to begin with. With a few exceptions, Louis' teammates find him to be invisible, even as captain of their squad. They didn't even give him a second glance as he and Liam walked into the room. That's just their team dynamic, though, he supposes. Easier to leave it be than to try to fix it with some team bonding shit or something.

Louis turns to face the corner and peels out of his hoodie and t-shirt, quickly pulling his under armor undershirt and football jersey on over his torso. Then he wiggles out of his tight jeans, replacing them with his compression shorts and athletic shorts. Meanwhile, he is making a sorry attempt to calm himself down, mentally giving himself a pep talk for these next few hours of hellish tryouts, because he honestly doesn't know what to expect, which is scary. Just the nervous anticipation of it all ruins the whole idea of tryouts.

Apparently, Louis subconsciously has a desire to destroy himself, because when he turns back around, he sees that Liam is already lacing up his football cleats. He's going to be late, at this pace, certainly. Just the other day, Liam was mentioning to him how this new coach punished his player for being late, and here he is, doing the same thing.

"God, Liam, you're quick," he comments, hurriedly yanking on his socks with a new sense of urgency.

"And you're late," Liam says, hopping up from the bench and jogging out of the door and towards the field.

Louis curses under his breath and slips his shin guard into one sock, repeating the process with the other. His fingers frantically fumble with his shoe laces as he unties them, then reties them into triple knots after he slips them onto his feet. With a final exhale, Louis springs up and practically sprints out of the door, not wanting to be even a second later than he already is, even though he's fairly confident that he's completely missed the mark, already. There's no point in trying to salvage the punctuality of his arrival.

Louis jogs out onto the field, his heart immediately sinking as he sees all of the players standing in a straight line on the sideline, facing him. They look like they're lined up in some military order or something. Not a good sign for Louis. Some of his teammates glare at him but the rest, including Liam, only sneak him a wary look, like they pity the pain that he's going to suffer for being late. Standing in front of the line of players is a tall, skinny man with broad shoulders and a slight slouch with long hair, clad in a windbreaker and simple, snug black jeans. Louis can't get a good view at the guy because he is facing away from him, but from the looks of his body alone--not to mention his healthy curls--he seems young. Attempting to be sealthy, Louis creeps his way up to stand beside Liam at the far end of the line. The person apparently notices how everyone is staring at Louis, and he moves to turn around as well. When he finally gets a look at the guy, Louis' breath catches in his lungs.

The man is _definitely_ young, he realizes, because his dark, wind-swept curls are thick and frame his chiseled cheekbones and jaw, curling around his ears and the nape of his neck. His lips are a soft, natural pink and full, almost like a girl's, but they somehow look a lot better on his face than they would on any woman. Thick, straight eyebrows furrow together into a frown over hard, but beautiful, bright eyes. Louis is too far away to tell their color, but he immediately decides that he wants to find out. This person is likely to be the most gorgeous man that Louis has ever laid eyes on, and for fuck's sake, this must be his football coach.

Louis doesn't even notice that he's standing, frozen, halfway between the line of his teammates and where his new coach stands. An embarrassed flush heats his cheeks and he forced himself into action. Blinking his eyes, Louis closes his gaping mouth, awkwardly jogging over to stand beside Liam on the far end of the line. He feels his coach's strict stare follow him all the way there, making his skin crawl uncomfortably. Louis stands rigidly, like the rest of the players, looking straight ahead, trying to avoid eye contract with anyone, especially the coach. Something about this situation is frustrating, and even a bit aggravating, because Louis Tomlinson is never intimidated or scared by anyone, and within a minute of meeting him, this new coach seems to be contradicting that statement. It's silent for a few seconds before someone speaks.

"Late on the first day of tryouts," a slow, deep, hearty voice says, undoubtedly belonging to the man, a dissatisfactory note evident in his tone.

Louis doesn't picture the voice matching the coach's look, but somehow, it seems to make him impossibly hotter. When Louis finally gathers the courage to look up, a pair of sharp eyes land directly on his own, and he feels trapped, pinned down by the man's intimidatingly lingering stare.

"I'll be keeping an eye on you," the coach threatens, glancing pointedly at him. Louis' insides churn.

The coach turns on his heels and paces down the line of players slowly, all long legs and long strides, his voice carrying off slightly by the wind.

"I'm Harry Styles, or Coach Styles to you," he states, pushing his hands into his windbreaker pockets and rocking back on his heels. "M' from Cheshire, played a few years of collegiate football, but was taken out with a knee injury before I could make it to the pros." Louis has to admit, he's impressed with this, but the fact that this god-like, hard-ass coach is already getting under his skin is still beginning to grate on his nerves. He can already tell that he's going to have to put up a solid effort to get on this guy's good side. Coach Styles continues his speech, strolling easily down to Louis' end of the line and stopping right in front of him, though he does not look directly at him. Louis, however, can't seem to look anywhere else.

"For that reason, am here to share my knowledge with you, and teach you all--to the best of my ability-- to be the best player you can be. So without further adue, let's get started."

"I want two laps around the field, and don't cut corners," Styles orders chiefly, sending the group into an immediate frenzy to obey his command.

Louis stifles a groan and begins jogging, leading the line around the field. He's in fairly good shape, so two laps are of course no struggle for him. He amps up his efforts, anyways, picking up his pace to a solid run. By the time he's finished, the others are still a solid few meters behind him. Maybe his fitness can earn him some brownie points.

Coach Styles is waiting idly in the middle of the field, so Louis jogs over, then stands near the man, still careful to keep a safe distance away. It's a challenge, but Louis doesn't look at him, instead pretending to watch the others as they finish jogging their warm up laps. He notices that the coach is watching him, though, and even though he refuses to make eye contact, Louis can physically sense that Styles is scrutinizing every single flaw and picking out every detail and weakness that is visible on Louis’ surface. Louis doesn’t like it. It makes him feel exposed, in a way, and he doesn’t think that’s ever been a great feeling. He is relieved when the rest of his teammates, including Liam, jog up and stand beside him, breathing heavily with hands on their hips as they wait for their next orders. He doesn't think he has never seen his team act so on-edge and obedient around a coach before, and it's bothering him. Why is this coach any different than Hughes? He shifts his weight to the side and places his hands on his hips, trying to fight the scowl growing on his face at his immediate distaste for this new coach. The guy's ravishingly good looks are not helping, either.

"We're going straight to one-on-ones, so get into two lines at the eighteen, and half of you grab a ball," Harry--or Coach Styles instructs, lazily picking at the cuticle of his thumbnail. He looks like a fucking king. It's irritating.

Louis fetches a ball and joins the back of one of the lines, watching as two by two, the pairs battle for possession until one eventually scores. He's up next, against Lucas, a quieter boy that he doesn't hate as much as the others, but still doesn't like, either. Should be an easy match up. He feels Styles' eyes following his every move as he passes the ball to his opponent and positions himself between the ball and the net, on defense. Lucas takes an aggressive stab forward, and Louis moves with him, not allowing any easy attacks. After a moment of anticipation, when he sees the opportunity, Louis swipes the ball from under Lucas's feet and swiftly rolls it past him in a smooth roulette, his transition too quick for Lucas to keep up with. He strikes through the ball powerfully, and it hits the back of the net with a pleasant sound.

Louis triumphantly jogs back to the end of the line, giving Liam a high-five on his way. He can't help but let his gaze wander over to Coach St--screw it-- Harry, who is chewing his bottom lip in a rather distracting way, poised with his arms crossed over his chest. He looks tall standing like that, probably all thanks to his long legs. Louis wonders if Harry even watched his goal.

It is Louis' turn again, but this time, he's competing against Ryan Shoemaker. This guy is by far his least favorite of the team. It's a long story, but the two of them have some history, and it's not good. Physically, Ryan is enormous, probably at least a good six inches taller than Louis, and he has the muscular build of an ox. Despite his figure, Shoemaker is a surprisingly decent center defender.

Ryan sends Louis a vicious glare as he kicks him the ball, getting himself into a defensive position. The one weakness that Louis is certain Ryan has is speed, so Louis does a few quick ball maneuvers to throw him off balance, and when he's sure that the majority of his opponent's weight is completely to the left, he dives to the right and heads for the goal. But before he can shoot, there's a massive force slamming like a freight train into his side and sending him flying to the ground, where he lands with a thud and a groan, feeling the grass itch his cheek. There's a throbbing pain below his ribs and across his shoulder, and Louis screws his eyes shut to fight back tears.

"Get up," is what he hears first. It's Harry who yells from the sidelines, his voice showing absolutely no sympathy.

Louis inhales deeply to calm himself down and try to will away the ache in his side. He wants to yell something sassy and rude back at Harry, because really, it isn't necessary to be this much of a dick. Instead, he forces himself up off the ground and slowly makes his way back to the end of the line, ignoring the flare of anger that pulses through him when he sees one or two other teammates fist bump a smirking Ryan. That's just fucking enough. It's one thing to have your teammates dislike you, but it's another when they hurt you on purpose and then get congratulated for it. Whatever. He'll just end up ignoring it, like every other time.

When Harry walks with his long, effortless gait toward the middle of the field, his hands stuffed deep in the pockets of his windbreaker, he looks completely unaffected by the cruel attack that Louis just endured, expression neutral and lips set in a straight line. It adds fuel to Louis' hate fire towards everything.

"Let's get into scrimmage teams," Harry says almost shouting over the wind, voice deep. He points two long fingers at Ryan and another boy, Zeke, Louis thinks his name is. "You two are captains. Pick your teams; one will have to play shirts, the other, skins."

In his mind, Louis prays that he doesn't have to play shirtless. He works out, he diets when he has the chance, and even though his body is toned and fit, it barely dulls his self-consciousness. In the past, Louis has had major self esteem issues.

Whenever he looked at himself, he always thought he was too fat, or too ugly, or too short. He wasn't the only one who noticed it, though. Everyone else seemed to see how disgusting he really was after he came out. And although he's been more in-shape than ever lately, his self consciousness hasn't died down a whole lot, so he's still admittedly terrified of exposing his body to the rest of the team, not to mention his new coach.

"Louis," Zeke calls out immediately as his first pick.

Slightly relieved not to be chosen last, Louis jogs up to join the forming line of his scrimmage team. Liam gives him a weak smile as he passes. Once the teams are complete, Zeke and Ryan start having a paper rock scissors duel to determine who will be shirts, and who will be skins. Louis gnaws on his lip anxiously and subconsciously crosses his arms around his torso, as if doing so will prevent him from having to remove his shirt. Thank god, though, Ryan's team loses and they toss their shirts to the side as Louis' team remains fully clothed.

Zeke's team takes one half of the field and Ryan's takes the other, Louis jogging into his center midfield position, eyes anxiously flitting over to where Coach Styles is sat on the bench by the sideline, his lanky legs crossed in front of him and his hands still buried in the pockets of his windbreaker. Louis finds himself becoming so intently focused on how softHarry's dark curls look when tussled by the wind that he hardly notices when the match begins. Frowning to himself, he shifts into an offensive position as his team possesses the ball, and then into a defensive one when the other team is attacking their net. On last year's team, Louis was appointed as captain because his coach admired his ability to 'see the whole field and use all aspects of the game to the team's advantage. So it's naturally Louis' role to be the one to release key passes and make strategic tackles, as well as to create scoring opportunities for his teammates. He has to admit, he's gotten pretty used to having this responsibly on the team, and has become quite good at it. During this scrimmage, he feels especially at ease and completely in rhythm with the game.

It's the last five minutes of the game, the score remains tied, neither team having scored, and Ryan is driving the ball out of the back line and down the field, straight at Louis. Being the oaf Ryan is, dribbling is obviously one of his weakness, so Louis isn't as nervous this time to go into a tackle with the guy. Easily, Louis swipes the ball from underneath Ryan's feet and spins right off of him, leaving the burly defender in a daze behind him as he maneuvers past a couple of other opposing players. The goal is only a few yards away now, only one obstacle between him and the net: the goalkeeper. Louis simply flicks his foot underneath the ball and sends it sailing into the far left corner, taking his team into the lead by a goal. A smile creeps up his lips as a few of his teammates approach him, clapping him on the back, wide smiles on their faces as Harry--or, Coach Styles signals the end of the game.

All of the players hurry over to stand uniformly in front of the coach, as if they were afraid that he'd, like, beat them up if they were the last one there. Louis almost scoffs and rolls his eyes at how threatened they are of Harry, because Louis finds that he himself really isn't. He has a sense that the coach already hates him, and it somehow makes him less likely to be afraid of disappointing the guy. It also makes Louis want to pester the hell out of him, though.

"Same place, same time, tomorrow after school, and don't be late," Harry instructs, his sharp emerald stare shifting pointedly to Louis.

Despite the shiver that threatens Louis' body, he glares right back. The air is tense, and after a prolonged second, Harry finally breaks the stare down and looks out at the group of players. "You are dismissed."

The others start to walk off the field, and Louis begins to follow, more than eager to get out of the place and away from his asshole coach and teammates. Just as he he turns away, though, he is stopped in his tracks. Fantastic. He can't say he didn't expect it.

"Not you," Harry orders from behind him, voice a low rumble.

Louis spins around on his heel and stands a few yards from Harry, who's already looking at him with those narrowed eyes that seem to be always scrutinizing every detail of Louis, head to toe. Harry's judging him, has been from the moment they met, just two hours ago, and Louis knows it. It makes Louis equal parts hyper-self aware and annoyed.

"What?" he snaps, certain he's only being held back to be criticized some more.

Harry holds out an hand and motions with two, impeccably long fingers (are those _rings_?) for Louis to come closer. Hastily, but still obediently, Louis steps towards Harry until they are a few feet apart and crosses his arms over his chest, hopefully exuding an air of impatience and agitation. It's then that Louis is able to really notice how tall Harry is, probably an entire head taller than himself. Louis has to literally tilt his head up just to glare at him. He watches with a scowl as Harry's tongue darts out between his lips and his eyebrows push together inquisitively.

"What's your name?" He asks, but it's more like a statement.

"Louis."

"Full name," Harry says, voice sharp enough to cut.

"Louis Tomlinson."

"You were late, Louis Tomlinson" he says bluntly.

Louis rolls his eyes. "And?"

A smirk pulls up a corner of Harry's lips, and a shadow of a dimple pokes through his cheek. Louis wants to set himself on fire. Really? A _dimple?_ Harry rocks back on his heels and peers down at Louis, actually seeming amused with his irritation. It infuriates Louis. He doesn't think any of this is funny. Then, the smirk on Harry's face is gone, replaced with a darker look, a glint in his eyes, and he's leaning down, becoming dangerously close to invading Louis' personal space. Louis' heart stutters in his chest for a moment, and Harry's breath puffs in visible clouds around his face as he speaks.

"You're going to make it up to me," he states.

Louis's stomach twists as he processes the words in his mind, twisting them into more than one meaning. And suddenly, he is thinking of Harry in more ways than he thinks he wants to; thinking of the different things those big hands could do, or those nice, nice lips...And god, as much as Louis already despises Harry, it's still almost impossible to keep these images out of his mind, he's just so _fit_. It has literally only been two hours, and already,

Louis' self control has gone right out the window. His cheeks burn with embarrassment and shame of his own inability to resist the raw sex appeal of this man, and judging by the look on Harry's face, he must be reading Louis's thoughts like an open book. Gulping nervously, Louis still tries to pretend like he isn't in the least bit fazed, even though his act is probably completely transparent. That sinful smirk is back on Harry's lips.

"And how's that?" Louis asks stubbornly, thanking his own voice for not shaking.

"Tomorrow after practice, you're staying after for a while," Harry says, glare unway if you're busy." vavering. "I don't care if you’re busy.” 

Louis narrows his eyes, but his insides stir anxiously at the preposition.

"Fine," he says, rolling his eyes. "Can I go now?"

Harry's eyes scrape over Louis' entire body, a bit too languidly to be coincidental, leaving dozens of sparks of electricity on Louis' skin in their wake. After a moment, he looks up to meet Louis' gaze, corners of his mouth quirked thoughtfully. Finally, he waves a dismissive hand in Louis' direction.

"Yeah, go ahead."

With that, Louis promptly turns his back on Harry and walks away, face hot with shame at how fast his heart is beating in his chest.


	2. Chapter 2

[After tryouts day #2]

It’s been five minutes since the second day of tryouts have ended, and Louis would be lying if he said that he isn’t nervous to stay after woth Coach Styles. As much as he’d like to think that he is not intimidated of his couch in the least bit, he finds himself getting anxious whenever Harry’s around, seemingly for no reason. Maybe it’s his towering height that scares Louis, or his controlling demeanor and piercing eyes. Whatever it is, he can feel the same nervousness right now building in his gut that he felt yesterday as Harry beckons for Louis to come over. Reluctantly, he walks up to the center of the field where Harry’s standing and tries his best to radiate confidence and slight irritation as he stands before Harry, a hand on his hip. Tough when Louis has to tilt his nech back just to glare up at him, he is reminded of how short he is and his scowl deepens. Harry might be able to tower over him like this and be all intimidating, but Louis has the big attitude to match. With a lingering once-over of Louis, a brief and slightly mischievous glint flashes in Harry’s eye before he speaks.

”Louis Tomlinson,” he says lowly, carefully, like it’s a dangerous name. “You’re going to make it up to me now.”

The words themselves and how confidently they roll off of Harry’s tongue strike a certain nerve in Louis, and he represses a shudder, willing himself not to get into...whatever Harry is trying to do to him. Harry seems to sense his discomfort, and the corners of his lips pull into a devious smirk, Louis swallows, but refuses to break eye contact, convincing himself that his ability to hold Harry’s fiery hot stare is an achievement.

“What do I have to do?” Louis asks, a hint of bitterness in his tone.

He can’t help it, being alone with his irresistible hot, yet frustratingly insufferable coach after practice is the last thing he wanted to be doing right now. He doesn’t even have any clue as to what Harry’s going to make him do as punishment for being late yesterday. Probably a million suicides or something. Harry leans forward in the slightest, so close now that his curls almost brush against Louis’ cheek when the wind blows. The fact that they’re so close to the point where they are almost touching sort of electrifies Louis. It’s strange to be near Harry right now, because as often as Louis already finds himself forgetting, Harry really is his coach, and they are technically not too far from crossing couch/player boundaries. But even stranger, Louis still feels an odd pull of some sorts, like craving to be closer. Harry’s eyes look down over Louis’ figure, always observing. Louis’ hands shake a little.

”I’ll let you choose how to do it,” Harry says, his breath puffing against Louis’ face. “Would you like to hear the options?”

Louis hesitates, then gives in with a sigh. “Yes.” Whatever.

The corners of harrys lips tug up a little, That’s when Louis knows he must really be in for it.

“The first is that you run sprints,” Harry says. “Lots of 'em.” Louis resists the urge to roll his eyes. Predictable.

”And the second?”

”You do whatever I say for the next half hour.”

Harry’s pink tongue darts out between his lips for a second, his green eyes gleaming, and it’s silent for a moment. Louis holds his breath, It’s obvious that this whole situation is heading nowhere good, but he can’t help but to be curious. Part of his is surprised that Harry is asking this of him, but then again, he does have the chance to say no. Thinking it through, he really doesn’t want to do any more sprints than they had already done at tryouts that day. He can’t believe he’s about to say yes to this. It’s practically a death wish.

”Okay.”

Harry's smirk grows to a full-on, devilish grin, and he rocks back on his heels, his hands in the pockets of his jacket. Louis suddenly feels like a prisoner, stuck here on Harrys watch, completely under his thumb, and doing whatever he pleases for the next half an hour. His hands are clenched by his sides to keep them from shaking noticeably, but of course, Harry has probably already seen. He is honestly scared for what Harry is going to make him do.

“Starting now.”

It's quiet for a second, and Louis wonders if Harry can hear his heart hammering in his chest as loud as he can in the silence. Harry has his long arms crossed now, and his eyes are squinted as he contemplates what he is going to say. What kind of evil tortures he's going to put Louis through. Louis stares up at him expectantly, something churning in his gut.

“Do a push-up,” Harry instructs, his voice deep and sudden.

Louis looks up at Harry like he's a madman at first, but then reluctantly drops to the ground and does a push-up, then standing up again. Harry seems pleased with himself, a small smile on his face, dimples on show.

”Untie your shoes.”

Louis places his hands on his hips in an annoyed manner, gives Harry a 'are you serious?' look, and sighs.

”Really, Harry?” He lets the disappointment be known from the tone of his voice.

Harry raises an eyebrow, and for a second, Louis is completely oblivious as to why until he replays what he just said and cringes. It's probably not wise to be calling his coach by his first name after only one day of knowing him, especially when it's Harry. But to Louis' surprise, Harry otherwise keeps a blank face, with the exception of his little triumphant half-smirk.

“Untie them.”

Louis glowers up at his coach and drops to his knee, reaching down and carefully unknotting the laces to his cleats, one and then the other. As he stands back up, he can already see the smile stretching further across Harry's face, which somehow irritates Louis that much more. This isn't entirely fair, Louis concludes, that Harry is keeping him here and making him do these stupid things just for his own amusement. Although, he supposed it is a pretty good punishment. Harry must see how. Then, Harry speaks again. 

"C'mere," Harry says, his voice low and husky like always as he beckons Louis over with two ringed fingers. Louis randomly--pointlessly, ridiculously--wonders what the rings symbolize as he hesitantly steps towards Harry.

They are maybe a foot away from each other when Louis stops. He tilts his neck upward to look up at Harry and stands before him, wringing his hands in the way he usually does when he gets nervous. He immediately stops doing that and moves his hands to prop on his hips instead, because no, Harry Styles won't make him wrong his hands. But then, as he stares up at his coach, he can get a good look at how plainly gorgeous Harry is. And not even in the way that Louis wants to snog him, or something, but just...he is able to appreciate the raw beauty of the man before him in a way that one might appreciate the beauty of a painting in a gallery. He has a pair of honest, green eyes, but their color seems to go deeper than just "green" somehow, like there's layers of emeralds and azures and golds underneath the surface. His hair is dark and long, curls reaching to his collarbones and framing his face in a way that is both immaculate and disheveled. He looks like some gorgeous god, towering above Louis with the sun casting yellowish beams across his flawless, milky skin, and his intent gaze fixated on Louis. He feels his heartbeat increase with each passing second, even though he is consciously attempting his very best to ignore how stunning Harry is. He feels the need to fidget with his hands when Harry's tongue darts across his lips, stare never straying from Louis.

“Tell me the truth Tomlinson,” He says slowly, lips twisting carefully over each syllable. “Can you do that?”

Louis swallows the lump in his throat anxiously and looks down at his feet, nodding. He can't help but cower in Harry's presence, as much as he wishes he wouldn't. Something about his superior demeanor seems to grab a hold of Louis and completely take control over his emotions and actions, despite his internal desire to rebel against anything that asserts dominance over him. It's quite scary for Louis, because he's never felt intimidated in this way in someone else's presence. It leaves him sort of terrified, but more curious as to all of the situations in which Harry might potentially choose to take advantage of his superiority over Louis (Exhibit A: making Louis do whatever he says for thirty minutes). So naturally, when Harry speaks, it's something that Louis definitely wouldn't have expected to come out of his mouth, because Harry is in control and can say whatever he wants.

“Why are you afraid of me?” Is what he asks, completely blunt and oblivious, his green eyes dead locked on Louis.

Louis's breath is caught in his lungs. He is bewildered as to how Harry could possibly read him so easily, like his emotions were written all over, plain to see printed across the pages of his face and of his body language. It's quite unnerving, and Louis gets the sense that Harry might know more than he's decided to let on this far. But could he really tell that Louis was scared of him, or was he just saying it to get on his nerves? Either way, he's getting a reaction out of it, which was probably his only goal in the first place. Louis' cheeks heat up and he trips over his own words, at a total loss of ideas and excuses and ways to avoid this question.

“I-I don’t, I’m not, I--“

”Be honest, babe.” He says softly, his voice unwavering and calm.

Louis's heart jumps so far into his throat that he almost chokes. _Babe?_ So Harry's really going to keep him on his toes, then. He blinks hard and averts his gaze to the grass, shamefully giving into the urge and fidgeting his fingers, not daring to look Harry in the eye, weary that he'll read his mind again. The fact that his coach called him "babe" should make him feel wrong and perverted, but he feels already too far gone, like he's past the point of no return and has inevitably fallen victim to Harry's good looks and undeniable charm, so of course he finds himself getting mildly turned on, instead. He's so ashamed of himself-- _god_ , where has his dignity gone?--but also hugely taken aback, and it takes a moment of astonished silence for him to develop a good whole sentence in his mind. Finally, he begins to speak, his voice shaky and hesitant.

“I-I don’t know,” is what he mumbles, feeling completely and helplessly insecure for what feels like the first time in his life.

“Look at me,” Harry demands, but somehow the tone in his honey-voice softer, not quite as insistent as before, and Louis is, once again, completely shocked and confused.

He obediently looks up though, and finds Harry looking directly back down at him, his green eyes alight with a hint of something that looks scarily similar to danger. Louis feels like he is being melted right through his very core.

“I noticed how you stare at me,” Harrys says, voice dripping with leisure and patience, his face composed and calm.

Louis gapes. He is at a loss for words, because honestly, what could he ever say back? Harry, his own football coach, knows now that Louis drools over him like some smitten schoolgirl. He knows now that Louis thinks that he is possibly the most flawless human masterpiece he's laid eyes on. And the worst thing is, he can't even try to bullshit his way out of this and deny it--he has no excuse. Harry would see straight through his lie in a second, undoubtedly. So he just stands there, staring wide-eyed and open mouthed up at Harry, feeling like a stupid deer in headlights, and wishing that he was able to somehow transform himself into that deer so he could become roadkill and get this over with. Harry's thick, gravely voice breaks the silence, snapping Louis out of his suicidal deer thoughts.

”Louis, do you find me...attractive?”

And shit. Harry's more brutally honest and direct than he anticipated. There's definitely no getting past that question. But Louis also notices that Harry had just called him by his first name, all by itself, for the first time, and it looks and sounds oddly pleasing tumbling off of his lips. Inevitably, Louis does find Harry attractive, and he also thinks many other things about Harry that he really should not say out loud. There's no use in beating around the bush with this one, Louis figures, because Harry has those burning eyes that can sense a lie before you even speak. He is shocked that Harry is asking him these totally out-of-bounds questions, but not really. Louis also can't believe that he's actually answering.

Louis swallows and shifts his weight nervously. “Um, I...y-yeah, I-I guess.”

The whole atmosphere changes for a moment. He suddenly recognizes their closeness, and he sees a brief flash fire in Harry's eyes that--if he didn't know better--he'd think it was desire. Louis can feel the heat of electricity coursing through his veins and down his limbs. It's just Harry, who is so tall and so handsome and Louis just wants to reach out and touch him. He is so close now that Louis isn't cold anymore. He can smell Harry's breath, and it's kind of fruity. His eyes are green and they look down at him with a hint of interest hidden in their grassy depths.

For a moment, it’s quiet.

Harry speaks softly, his breath brushing Louis’ cheek. “Do you want me to...kiss you, Louis?”

Louis's eyes are cast downward and he's started to breath heavier, but hopefully Harry doesn't notice. His voice is unreliable, so he hesitantly nods. Silence fills the space between them. A moment later, Louis's eyes carefully shift back up, and Harry is staring right at his lips. For a second, Louis thinks he's going to kiss him. But to his shock, Harry turns his back and begins walking.

“You can go for it, if you want,” he mutters as he grabs his duffel bag and begins packing it.

Louis feels like a weight has been lifted off of his chest, but at the same time, he feels a sharp pang of something awful in his heart. The feeling is similar to rejection, except he doesn't understand why he feels rejected if he didn't initiate the interaction. He's also angry--so angry that he could hit something--both at himself, for being so delusional as to think that Harry would kiss him, and at Harry for leading him on. Hot tears prick the backs of his eyes, and he turns away for a second to disguise it.

“Whatever,” he manages to say in an indignant tone, marching over to the bench and snatching his watter bottle hastily.

And with that, he spins on his heel and walks away from Harry. The worst part is that, despite every reason Louis had to hate him, deep in his heart, Louis still wanted Harry more than anything.


	3. Chapter 3

Today Louis finds out if he has earned a spot on the football team for his third year in a row. Unlike the other tryouts he had experienced, Louis was actually uncertain whether he would make the team or not. Sure, his football skills by themselves were considerably better than average, but with Harry as the new coach, Louis didn't have a guaranteed spot on the team this year. His freshman and sophomore years as a football player for the school were a breeze. The coach loved him, always had him leading warm ups and never started him on the bench. But this year was different, and he wasn't confident that he would get a spot because of his now complicated, and rather awkward, relationship with Coach Styles.

Louis shuffled down the hallway, lugging his books along in his arms and occasionally smiling at one of the rare students at the school that didn't hate him. Louis's situation was different, regarding the fact that half of the school really didn't mind him, and the other half would laugh at his funeral. They only hated him for his homosexuality, which was hard, because Louis couldn't change that. He liked men, big deal. It wasn't like he was going to hit on any of them or something. None of them were even attractive, anyway. The majority of those who resented him were on his football team from previous years. They would push him around in the locker room, call him names, and all that. But lately, they hadn't been doing it as much.

After twisting the dial, Louis crammed all of his textbooks into the endless abyss of overdue papers and forgotten jackets that he called his locker, and dug his football bag out. He had to kick his locker a few times to get it to close before he slung his bag over his shoulder and headed down the hallways, towards the locker room. The corridors were mostly quiet as Louis walked; the majority of the students had left school already. The silence was a bad thing, because it allowed Louis' mind to think freely, touching over subjects that he didn't welcome into his imagination. The image of his coach the day before popped into his head, his big curls artfully styled around his face, lips irresistible and eyes unbearably intense, mouth merely inches from Louis'. Louis remembered it all too well, especially the heart-wrenching feeling of rejection when Harry had so rudely dismissed him right when he had gotten Louis' hopes all up like a child who was promised candy. Then, with a shake of his head, Louis clears his mind from the thought and continues to walk. He can't have those kind of things polluting his mind on a day as important as this one.

Liam beat him to the locker room, and Louis greets him warmly, along with a clap on the back as they walk into the room together, to their usual lockers. Louis changes quickly again, avoiding the disgusted glances from his other teammates. It's like they think he enjoys undressing in front of them just because he's gay. Which is definitely not the case, because every single one of them were totally not Louis' type. Tugging on his socks and shinguards and tying up his laces with a minute to spare, Louis is cutting it close. He bursts out the locker room door and into the field. He smiles to himself as he feels cool rain beginning to sprinkle on his skin. Playing in the rain is his favorite.

The team is formed, again, in a tight line, Coach Styles standing before them, like a conductor before an orchestra, the players waiting for his orders like waiting for their cue. Louis knows he's going to get noticed as he sneaks onto the end of the line, right beside Ryan, who's glare he can feel drilling into the side of his head. Louis is cringing as he keeps his head down, trying to avoid Coach Styles's inevitable scolding. The whole line, including Harry, is silent, and Louis knows that they were all waiting on him. He prepares himself for the worst as he hears Harry call his name, sending child down his body, like the cold rain sliding down the curve of his spine.

"Tomlinson."

Harry is standing right in front of him, now, so he has to look up. And what makes it so much harder is that Harry looks so incredibly hot right then, standing tall over him, the rain dampening the ends of his hair, a curl falling out of its style and over his cheekbone. There's water dripping down his skin, and his eyes are sharp as ever, an intimidating scowl written across his features. So many things are racing through Louis's imagination, a fair amount of them explicit. He knows that Harry can sense his discomfort, and he just wishes to disappear.

"There seems to be a reoccurring problem here, would you agree?" Harry drills, his voice firm, with a dangerous edge of irritation.

"Yes," Louis says, feeling heat crawl up his neck despite the freezing downpour.

"And what do you think should be the consequences for misbehaving boys like you?"

Electricity pulses through his body with Harry's words, causing him to shiver involuntarily. With a gulp, Louis shakes his head, averting his gaze to his already soaked cleats.

"I-I don't know."

He feels Harry’s eyes travel up and dowm his body, burning like fire. The tension in the air is pressing down on his shoulders, making him want to shrink. The silence is unbearable, though brief.

”Why don’t we decide on it after this practice, then, Tomlinson.”

Louis nods, not daring to look up from his shoes.

”Alright then,” Harry continues, strolling on down the line. “Two laps.”

Louis is breathing heavier than he thinks he ever has in his life. Sweat and rain drench his clothes, and despite the freezing temperature, his body feels overheated. The team had done sprints and runs of all kinds for the whole practice, with hardly any breaks. Coach Styles was relentlessly working them until they literally dropped. A few kids were actually sprawled out on the wet grass, their chests heaving with labored breaths. Louis would laugh at them if he had the wind to.

He can't help but lift his gaze to find Harry. He is standing in his relaxed posture, with his hands in the pockets of his windbreaker, his eyes calmly sweeping over the group of exhausted players. The heavy drops of rain are wetting his thick hair and sliding down his nose and catching in his eyelashes, and he looks at Louis then. Something so discreet that it is almost unnoticeable changes in Harry's eyes changes in that moment, something so intense that Louis finds himself quickly averting his gaze to the wet grass before he can determine what it might have been. When Louis turns away, his heart is beating in his chest just as fast as it had been when he was running.

"Hey, Louis," a familiar approaching voice says from behind him.

Louis snaps out of his haze and turns to face Liam, who has walked up beside him, not even looking exhausted in the least bit, his hands placed casually on his hips. The thing about Liam is that he is literally superhuman. You could ask him to run a marathon in twenty minutes and he'd do it in nineteen. Louis gets jealous of Liam because of that all the time; he himself probably looks like a wreck right now. But his presence was comforting to him in a way, and he smiled graciously at his friend.

"Hey, Li. You sure look whipped," he jokes.

Liam rolls his eyes. "I do runs all the time."

Typical.

"So what's going on with you and Coach? Looks like you two really have it out for each other."

"Something like that," Louis shrugs, kicking a clump of grass with the toe of his shoe.

They are interrupted by the sound of Harry’s deep voice, commanding shout.

”Gather up.”

Although their legs probably all feel like liquid, they all scramble up and stand in a half circle a respectable distance from where Harry is stood. Louis purposely stays near the back, and beside Liam. Harry pulls his hands out of his pockets and rubs them together a few times, his eyes observant as always as he overlooks the players, his players. For a few moments, it's quiet, beside the tap of raindrops bouncing off shoulders. Then Harry speaks.

"I know that most of you probably think that getting onto this soccer team is going to be easy," he says, his deep voice cutting through the silence. "But some of you....erm, y-you know that it's not like that, and you gave it a good effort every time."

Louis feels a laugh building in his throat, because is Coach Styles actually stammering?

"So if you don't get a spot, it's because you weren't one of those people," Harry explains, finally lifting his gaze.

How is Louis actually nervous? He never gets nervous. Is there actually a possibility that he might not make the team this year? His previous coaches loved him, favorited him more than any other on the team. But this time, it's not those coaches that are choosing. It's Harry. And Louis might just be screwed.

Harry fumbles in his pocket for a piece of paper and unfolds it with one hand while running his fingers through his dripping hair with the other.

"I'm going to call the names of those of you who, um, who have made the cuts," Harry says. "If you don't hear your name, I'm sorry, but, it is what it is."

Louis chews his bottom lip and waits. He doesn't think he's ever been so uncertain.

"Liam."

Beside Louis, Liam is beaming, and Louis gives him a clap on the back, with a congratulatory nod. Liam must catch onto the nervous look in Louis's eye, because he smiles reassuringly and squeezes Louis' hand quickly.

"Ryan--," Louis grimaces. "Keith, Isaiah, Jake, Ed--“

Louis is sure now. As he's listening to the names of the new team, he's sure that his will not be among them. Why would Harry pick him if he was late to almost every practice, even if he did make it up after? Louis was good at the sport, but that didn't seem to be what Harry cared about the most.

"--and Louis."

What? Louis looks around, and everyone is looking back, few with smiles, many with glares. Liam has turned towards him and wraps an arm around his shoulders, giving him a bright smile.

"Congratulations, mate," the brown eyed boy says warmly.

Louis is too surprised to return more than a weak "thanks". He had actually made it. Harry had chosen him over other players, maybe not as good, but more punctual than him. He didn't know whether to feel proud of himself or not, because did he really deserve it? He had worked hard all week, but he still didn't believe that he would be chosen. And he also didn't seem to be the only one who was shocked. Both players of the new team and players who had been cut were sending him sharp looks that would probably intimidate him if he wasn't so confused.

"Thank you all for your participation," Harry says, and the low murmurs of surprise cut off abruptly. "The first team practice is Monday. Don't be late."

With that statement, he gives Louis a pointed look that sends chills through his body. Louis hates how affected he is by everything Harry does. It makes him feel vulnerable, which is something he usually is not, and never likes to be.

"You can go home, now," Harry muttered, turning his back to the group and raking a hand through his wet curls.

For a moment, Louis was filled with relief at the thought that he must've forgotten Louis's punishment, but then suddenly, Harry turned back around just as Louis was leaving and pointed at him, signaling him over with two fingers. Louis' hopes diminished.

"You're staying," Harry states roughly. "Come with me."

He begins to walk along the sideline of the field, towards the bench, with his long strides and lengthy legs. Louis follows behind, practically having to jog to keep up. He looks behind him to see the last player on the field disappearing through the locker room door. Great. Just him and Harry.

Harry stops at the bench and waits for Louis there, his arms crossed over his chest. When Louis is stood in front of him, Harry nods towards the bench.

“Sit.”

Even though he feels extremely condescended, Louis plops down on the bench and crosses his arms to match Harry’s, then expressing his displeasure with a frosty glare. Harry just kind of looks at him for a moment after that, from head to toe with no readable emotion in his eyes. His voice is the same.

”Is the a reason why you are always late?” He questions bluntly.

Louis refrains from rolling his eyes and manages to maintain his frown.

”I don’t know,” he answers, a dangerous hint of sassiness in his tone.

Harry's eyebrows furrow together and he pushes his fingers through his wet curls, recrossing his arms. Louis can definitely tell that he's agitated, and knowing so fuels him, makes him want to push the limits even further.

"You know that this will not be tolerated on my team," Harry insisted, his frown deepening.

Louis is trying to come up with some annoying remark, but he can't quite seem to think about anything other than Harry right now. The way he looks is just... it makes it difficult to want to make him angry. With rain droplets rolling down his fair, porcelain skin, dark locks of damp curls framing his cheekbones, and stunning green eyes that take Louis's breath away, Harry is probably just the most beautiful human Louis has seen. And how can Louis still despise him?

"Tomlinson, i’m talking to you," Harry snaps. "Are you _deaf_?"

Oh, that's why. Because Coach Harry Styles is a fucking dickhole.

“Then why the hell did you pick me?” Louis sneers, narrowing his eyes even more.

Harry’s jaw is clenched and his green eyes are more fiery than even.

Louis know that he’s set him off, and he’s becoming a tricking time bomb. He pushes on. 

“If you hate my guts so much, then why did you even bother?” Louis presses. “Well you know what? I don’t like you either.”

Harry looks about ready to smash Louis’ face in. Briefly, he wonders if he might be getting himself kicked off the team. Oh well, it’s about someone told this Harry guy how rude he is.

”I actually think you’re kind of a douche. Like why are you so mean to me all the time? Seriously what crawled up your--“

“Shut up.”

Louis stops talking. The look on Harry's face is so enraged that Louis is actually frightened. He knows he went too far, but was that what he was trying to do? Maybe he wanted to test Harry's reaction, to see if he was ballsy enough to do something about it for real.

But Harry is stepping forward now, and Louis flinches as his hand outstretches in his direction. To his surprise, Harry doesn't hit him. Instead, he fists the collar of Louis's jersey in his hand and yanks him off of the bench. Louis' eyes widen with fear as Harry begins towing him towards the locker rooms.

"What the hell--"

The door shuts after them and Harry suddenly pushes Louis against the locker roughly, not letting go of his shirt. He towers above him, but is leaned in close to his face, huffing angrily, his minty breath against Louis' cheek.

"You know, Tomlinson, just because I'm your coach doesn't mean that I can't do what I want with you," he threatens. "So if you have a problem with me, say it. I dare you."

Louis trembles in Harry's aggressive hold, preparing himself for something bad to happen. He knows it will. Harry leans in further, his damp curls cold against Louis's cheek and their chests barely touching. His eyes are full of rage, waiting for Louis' next move.

"Let go of me," Louis orders calmly.

Harry pauses. He looks down to where his fist clenches around Louis's shirt and to where their chests touch. He seems to register their closeness now, to notice how their noses are only centimeters apart. His stare flickers down to Louis's lips briefly, then back up to his eyes.

"Well, are you going to say it, or not?" Harry asks, ignoring Louis' demand. His tone is impatient and irritated.

Louis gapes up at Harry, and Harry stares down curiously at Louis. He doesn't know what to do. His mind is flying at a million miles an hour, so he just blurts everything that he can think of.

"I hate how you make everyone do whatever you want, and I hate how you are controlling me all the time and act like I do everything wrong. Like, so what if I'm one minute late to practice?" He spouts, narrowing his eyes. "You're such a dick, sometimes, Harry, but I also think that I might like you a little because you're kind of gorgeous and maybe you could be nice if you tried, like really hard, so I don't know whether to hate you or to like you, but I think I hate you. A lot. But I don't know because you... you're just...you."

As he finishes, Louis immediately recoils, pressing back into the locker and waiting for Harry's outburst. But to his shock, his word vomit is met with silence. Cautiously, he peers up at Harry, who's grip on his collar had loosened. Both of his hands were on either sides of Louis' head now, caging him between Harry and the lockers. Harry's eyes are locked on his, and his lips parted slightly, as if he was startled by what Louis had said. Louis stands there, frozen, not sure whether to be afraid of the silence or what would come after it. Harry's eyes move across Louis' face, studying. Louis' heart jumps in his chest.

“I-I'm sorry. I should go,” Harry mutters. And he's gone. In seconds, Harry backs away from Louis and disappears through the locker room door.

Louis stands still, feeling his cold and wet clothes cling into his body and a sudden sense of loss. He can still imagine Harry’s face, inches away from his, the rain drops slipping down his nose and still caught in his eyelashes, the heat that his body radiated, and the soft tone he used that Louis had never heard. Harry had left him wet and cold and alone and confused in the locker room, where he had nothing else to do but think. So he did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi ! Sorry for not updating yesterday, busy day and all....anyways, hope you enjoy ! :D


	4. Chapter 4

Mondays are already bad enough by themselves. Louis is tired and cranky from the weekend, and on top of that, he has to go to school. And on top of _that_ , in half an hour is his first practice with the newly formed football team. Which he so is not looking forward to attending. Actually, Louis gets to thinking, and he realizes that if Harry was not the coach of his team, he would probably be excited to go to practice. If Harry wasn't the coach of his team, a lot of things would be different, probably none of which he would miss. It's kind of stupid that he practically is now deathly afraid of his own coach. Well, really, though, you can't blame him. Harry is a whole head taller than Louis, and he was on the verge of smashing his head into a slab of metal, and that's reason enough for him to be absolutely dreading their encounter tonight. But then, there was that look in Harry's eye, and the way that he spoke to Louis after he had told him what he really thought. Louis doesn't know what the hell it was or what it could've meant, he can't even guess. It's been troubling him all day, the scenes in the locker room replaying in his mind nonstop, making him even more curious as to what exactly it was. But he decides that he's done thinking about it, because he's getting too distracted over his coach. And of course that's why Louis finds himself completely obliviously walking straight into Ryan Shoemaker.

His mouth opens, and he is about go ape on whoever ran into him, but then he looks up and sees who it is. Ryan is tall and stocky, towering above Louis menacingly with a scowl on his face. His eyes are green, like Harry's, but dull and threatening. Louis looks away and closes his mouth quickly, gathering his gym bag in his arms and stepping past to walk to practice. A meaty hand clamps on his shoulder and stops him in his tracks.

"Hey, Tommo, boy," Ryan's booming voice sneers for behind him. The hand on his shoulder spins him around and grips the collar of his shirt, just like Harry had yesterday. He drops his bag in surprise.

"Congrats on making the team, faggot," Ryan says, smiling as he slams Louis' back against the lockers.

As his back slams into the hard metal, his head hits the lockers, too, and _hard_. So hard that for a moment, all he sees is black, and the pain is so great he thinks he might pass out right then. Louis groans and screws his eyes shut, white spots dancing across the insides of his eyelids. Gasps escape his lips as he feels something hard relentlessly pummel into his stomach, and then a fist crash into his cheek. Helplessly, with tears running down his cheeks, Louis struggles against Ryan's hold on his shirt and tries to wiggle out of his grasp, but Ryan's hand catches his arm. His meaty fingers fit around his whole arm and are as tight as a vice, preventing Louis from running this time.

Ryan leans down, so close to Louis' face that he smells his bitter breath, and growls, "Faggot's don't play football, they just don't."

With a snort, he releases Louis' arm and shoves him to the floor. Louis whimpers pathetically and lays curled up on the cold tile as Ryan's foot slams once into his back and once into his hip for the last time. Then, he hears a brute laugh and Ryan's receding footsteps, before everything is silent again, aside from his own staggered breaths as he regains his wind. He tastes the saltiness of his tears--or maybe his blood-- in his mouth and lays on the floor motionless, lost in his own pain. Some people just hate him, so of course he has been beaten up before, but never this badly. The sad thing is, he's not even surprised.

After he gathers himself, Louis reaches for his bag, and scoots over and props himself against the lockers to get off of the ground, the sharp pain in his abdomen causing a breathless groan to fall from his lips as he finally stands. He begins to take steps forward, the throbbing in his head causing the hallway around him to swirl into one big blur. His hand shoots out to brace himself on the wall as he continues walking.

As he staggers towards the locker room, his bag in his hand, he sees that Liam isn't waiting for him. He must be late for practice again. Great. He musters the energy to trip through the door and into the empty locker room, steadying himself with a hand on the wall. He's so dizzy that he can hardly see straight, and the sharp jabs of pain in his stomach, his back, and his hip are not making it any better. The throbbing in the back of his head spreads throughout his whole skull, and his vision goes dark for a painful moment, making him wince and stumble right into a locker. He can't see, and he starts to panic as he feels himself collapsing to the hard tile floor. That's when Louis loses consciousness.

***

"Yeah, I-I found him in here just laying on the floor, totally out cold. Dunno what happened, but 11 his head looks pretty busted up."

"A-alright..... I can take it from here. You can go home if you'd like."

"Well.... Will you tell me if he's alright?"

"Yeah. Sure thing. I'll see you tomorrow. Thanks again."

There's the sound of receding footsteps and a door closing, and then it's silent. Without any senses other than his hearing and touch, Louis tries to create an image of his surroundings in his head. He is aware of his body being shifted and his head being laid on something firm and slightly warm, but he feels cold hard ground beneath his palms. The air is cool on his skin. Someone is with him, and whoever it is is being silent. He can't tell who, but he thinks it could be Liam. Who else would care enough to be there right now?

Suddenly, Louis distinctly feels a large hand lay on his shoulder and give him a small shake.

"Louis..."

The voice is familiar, but his head is pounding and it's too difficult to attach the sound to a face. He's trying to open his eyes and regain his consciousness, but the more he tries, the more painful it becomes.

Then, another soft hand rests lightly on his forehead, then slowly shifts down to cup his cheek. The touch feels nice against his skin, gentle and careful. He feels the fingers then move softly across his cheekbone to the side of his face and slide through his hair. _Who in the hell could this be?_

"Louis?"

He feels himself beginning to wake up. It's a slow process, but Louis gradually begins to ease into consciousness, regaining control of each of his senses, one by one. After blinking a few times to adjust to his blurry surroundings, Louis is fully conscious. The first thing he sees is green.

His eyes widen with shock when he recognizes those heart lips and the fair skin, and the dark, buoyant curls styled messily around that face. _His_ face. All Louis can do is stare, in both shock and awe, his heartbeat pounding erratically in his chest. Harry is leaning over Louis curiously, but an expression of surprise is written all over his features. He's frozen; his hand still in Louis' hair, holding him gently while his head is resting on Harry's tight-black-jean-clad thighs. All he can focus on is the beautiful, light shade of green that is staring down at him without break. After what seems like an eternity, but in reality is a moments hesitation, Harry quickly withdraws his hand and makes a small cough as he averts his eyes, like he was caught doing something he shouldn't have been. Louis' heart rate slows to it's normal pace and he makes an effort not to seem distraught by the loss of contact.

"Louis? A-are you alright?" Harry is looking down at Louis, his voice careful and soft.

"Y-yeah, I think," he mutters dazedly.

Harry seems especially alert as Louis begins to lift his head from Harry's legs and carefully sit up, his skull throbbing as he adjusts. He's in so much pain still, that it feels as if his entire body is aching- bruised and cut up. Harry watches him with attentive eyes as he brings a hand to the back of his head, wincing. His head spins with the jolt of pain, and he screws his eyes shut, breathing in deeply. He feels Harry place a hand on his shoulder to steady him.

"Careful," Harry orders, his voice firm.

Louis looks up at him. His eyebrows are knitted together and his lips are pressed into a tight line, a loc hat you would see on someone who is concentrating on something very hard. He let's his hand fall from Louis' shoulder, but his eyes do not fall from his face. Louis thinks that Harry might actually be concerned, but he's too dazed to think too much about it. Instead, he notices how Harry's looking at him strangely, like he's been slightly put off by something.

"What happened to you?" Harry questions cautiously, his bright eyes staring down imploringly into Louis'.

Louis knows that it probably would not be a good idea to tell Harry that Ryan had thrown him around and beaten him up like it was nothing, mostly for the reason that if Ryan found out that he had snitched on him, their next encounter would be even worse than their last. The thought of that makes Louis nervous.

He realizes that he is just blankly staring at Harry's plain black shirt that he has on under his windbreaker and deciding what to say for an unusual amount of time and he snaps out of his imagination, a heat creeping into his cheeks. Harry is looking at him intently with curiosity. He's leaning towards Louis and his eyes are narrowed slightly and staring at him with an intensity that feels almost penetrating. Louis squirms a little, fidgeting with his hands out of nervous habit and wondering what he should say. He panics.

"I-I was walking and, like, my head, um, I--"

"What I meant was who did this, Louis." Harry interrupts.

Louis hesitates for a second, and then looks at his lap embarrassedly, crossing his legs. "Ryan."

There's a moments silence. "You're talking about Ryan Shoemaker, the one on my team?" Harry asks, suddenly sounding more tense than before.

Louis looks up, and Harry's eyes are focused on some point beside his head, his lips twisted into a frown as he chews the inside of his cheek.

"Yeah," Louis sighs defeatedly.

Harry's looks back to Louis, and he stares him dead in the face. As his eyes shift observingly over Louis, he can feel himself blushing. Why does Harry make him feel like that, all hot inside?

Harry looks like he's concentrating; his brow furrowed and tongue darting across his red lips as arm lifts and his long, ringed fingers reach out tentatively to touch his cheekbone, as carefully as if he were made of paper. The contact sends a pulse of electricity through Louis' veins, and is gone quickly when Harry retracts his hand. Louis thinks he can see blood smeared on his fingertips. Sure enough, when he brings his own hand to his face, bright red blood is stained on his fingers. He notices the same color on the floor. When he lifts his eyes again, Harry is watching him.

"Is that all he did to you?" His voice is deep, and somehow rough but smooth at the same time. Louis thinks he could listen to it forever.

"N-no." He looks down, his ears becoming hot.

After a quiet moment, Harry says, "Will you show me the rest?"

Louis doesn't want to, he really doesn't. The newly formed blue and purple bruises probably just make his stomach look uglier, and he is certain that his back and hip isn't any better. He can't even imagine how bad his cut up face looks. The room is quiet, and Harry is still looking at him, but he can't bring himself to look back as he slowly lifts the front of his blood splotched, favorite striped shirt over his head and clutches it tightly in his hands. The air is like ice against his newly exposed, bare skin. He instinctively wraps his arms around his bare stomach out of self conscious habits and looks away, hot tears pressing behind his eyes for a reason that he doesn't even know. He is so exposed, and so weak in front of Harry like this. It is so uncomfortable and he feels ashamed of himself without knowing why.

Not a sound has been made, and Louis embarrassedly looks up, just for a second, to see how disgusted Harry must be. But Louis sees how his eyes are wide as they stare at his battered torso, and how his eyebrows are pulled together and how he's chewing on his lip in a way that seems painful. The look on his face makes it seem like Harry is actually hurt by Louis' own wounds. Louis is so still, his heartbeat pumping in his ears and sending waves of pain through his head, but he doesn't even notice. He's too concentrated on covering up as much of his body as he can. But then, Harry's arm reaches out, and Louis watches, wide eyed, as his fingers gently brush against Louis' arm, signaling for him to stop hiding himself. With hesitation, Louis uncrosses his arms from in front of his stomach and places them by his sides, now not sure what to do with them. His face is burning and he can _feel_ Harry's eyes on his body, when the silence is finally broken.

"Louis..." It's almost a whisper, but he can hear the pain in Harry's voice. Louis doesn't understand.

"Is that...everything?"

Louis bites his lip hard enough to keep the tears in and shakes his head, turning his back towards Harry to show the rest of his bruises. He hears a quiet gasp, and flinches when soft fingertips touch the sore area at small of his back, where Ryan had kicked him. He holds in shivers as Harry's fingers move with a touch as light as a feather over his skin, leaving goosebumps in their wake. When he stops, Louis quietly turns back to Harry, who stares at his lap for a while before saying anything.

"Why did he do this to you?"

It's a simple, and harmless question, but images of the evening before in this same locker room with Harry, and everything they had said to each other came flooding back into Louis' mind. Harry was so unsympathetic towards him and it makes him fear what he would say if he told him the real reason. Louis can't trust him at all, because he hasn't given him a reason to. So the first thing that comes to his mind, he blurts it out without a second thought.

"Why do you care?"

It doesn't come out like he wanted it to; bitter and mean instead. Part of him regrets questioning him at all, because when he looks back up, he can tell that his words impact Harry. He takes in a large breath and his eyes hold nervousness as flick back up to meet Louis'. Louis feels guilty for sounding so harsh. He hopes Harry notices. After he quietly clears his throat and blinks, Harry answers.

"I don't particularly enjoy seeing small boys beaten up and passed out on the floor," he says slowly. "So it helps to at least know what happened."

Louis doesn't know what to say, so he doesn't say anything, just sits there with his hands laying awkwardly in his lap, staring at Harry who is staring at him.

"Now tell me why Ryan beat you up, Louis," Harry continues, regaining his confidence.

_Isn't it obvious enough?_ Louis thinks. Because he's gay. Of course it's because he's gay. That's always the reason. Harry knows it, too. Hell, he's even heard Louis say that he thinks he is attractive. So Louis figures that if Harry already knows, then there's really no point in saying anything more. But Louis does feel guilty, and maybe he owes it to Harry to just say it, especially since he stayed with him and waited for him to wake up.

"Um...actually, he doesn't really take a liking towards me. Mostly because I'm gay," Louis murmurs quietly, looking quickly away and digging his fingernails into his palms.

It's quiet for a second, and it makes Louis even more anxious. He looks up again to see Harry watching him, his lips slightly parted and brow furrowed, either with shock or interest. Then, all of the sudden, Harry is standing up, and holding out his hand towards Louis.

"Let's go," Harry says, and the look on his face is dead serious.

Louis hesitantly grabs his hand, now realizing how nimble and delicate and just _large_ they were. It takes effort from both of them to get him standing, but he does, using Harry partly as a crutch. Once he's up, all of the blood rushes to his head and spots dance across his vision, causing him to stumble to the side a little. Harry's hands clamp onto his waist just above his hips to steady him, and his touch sends shivers down Louis' spine. It feels good, like Harry's hands were supposed to be there.

"Okay?" Harry asks concernedly, his voice raspy and deeper than the ocean.

"Y-yeah," Louis chokes, his head down, attempting to hide his flushed cheeks.

Harry nods silently and let's go of his waist, leaning down to pick up Louis' gym bag from the bench. Then, Harry touches Louis again, and he feels even dizzier when he does. His hand rests on the middle of Louis' back and guides him as they walk out of the locker room--Harry taking extra care to hold the door for Louis-- and across the field and parking lot to a small silver car that Louis guesses is Harry's. He stops and fishes around in the pocket of his windbreaker, his curls falling over his forehead as he does. When he looks up abruptly, Louis jumps.

"Do you have a car?"

"Y-yeah, I drove it here this morning," he answers.

Harry looks down and bites his lip, seeming like he's contemplating something. His fingers fiddle with the keys and make them create little clinking noises.

"Is it alright if I drive you home?" Harry offers, but it's not phrased as a suggestion.

"Yeah, sure," Louis nods, not having another option, but not wanting to turn this one down either.

Harry nods once and steps to the opposite side of the car, opening the passenger side door. Louis follows him, awkwardly sliding into the seat. The door shuts and Harry goes back to the driver side, climbing in swiftly and switching his car on. After he buckles his seatbelt, he turns to Louis again.

"Whereabouts do you reside, Louis Tomlinson?"

"812, Brickstone apartments."

Harry's eyebrows furrow. "By yourself?"

Louis nods, and Harry turns back to his steering wheel, a confused look still paired on his face. Louis wonders why this bothers him so much. The silence that falls between them makes Louis feel squirmy inside, and he becomes increasingly more self conscious as it continues. Harry's thumbs drum on the leather steering wheel, and Louis admires the delicate slenderness of his fingers. They're nice fingers. Very nice fingers. Louis' eyes begin to travel up Harry's long, muscled biceps and to his strong shoulders. His body is amazing. Louis can't decide if he's jealous of Harry's body or if he just wants it all to himself, to be able do anything he wanted to it. And Harry's face is just as breathtaking, with his excellent jawline, soft, fair skin, and stunning green eyes framed by thick lashes. His hair is buoyant and fluffy and it curls around his cheekbones and ears. Louis really wishes that Harry was just a normal student walking in the hallways of his school, or a cute boy that he would find sitting in the corner of a cafe reading a book. Then, he would be able to flirt with him openly and tell him everything that he's thinking in his head right now and can't say out loud. But Harry's his coach, and it's awful because he can't do _anything_ , and it's physically painful to restrain himself.

"This it?"

Louis is snapped out of his imagination as they pull into his complex. He nods, and Harry's eyes lift back to the lot ahead, searching for his apartment number and a parking spot that would be closest to it. He finally slides into a spot directly in front of Louis' apartment, and twists the key out of the ignition. When he looks over at Louis, their eyes meet for a heated second before Louis looks at his lap again.

"Would you like me to walk you in?" He asks, and it's so polite and innocent that Louis is surprised, but still melts a little inside.

"U-um, I think that I can probably manage..." Louis mumbles awkwardly, struggling with his seatbelt.

"Alright, then," Harry coughs and rakes a hand through his hair. "I'll see you at the next practice--if you're feeling any better, that is."

"Yeah, sure. Thanks for, uh, being--"

"Yeah, really, it's not a problem," Harry mutters, looking down at his hands and shaking his head sheepishly. Louis has never seem him act shy.

"Alright," Louis says, climbing out of the car, carefully, so he wouldn't get dizzy again. "Thanks."

Harry mumbles a "yeah" before Louis shuts the car door and gathers his bags, walking with slightly pained steps towards his apartment. As he reaches the door to the entrance of his complex, something makes him look back at Harry. When he does, their gazes, cross paths once more, green on blue and blue on green. And as he turns back around and ascends the stairs to his apartment, the only thing on his mind is the question: _who else is Harry styles?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Long time no see, i’m sorry i didn’t update i had exams...BUT now i’m back mwahahaha (that’s my evil laugh btw) anyways hope you enjoyed !


	5. Chapter 5

The bruises on his face, across his ribcage, over his left hip, and the ones shaped as fingers around his arm are deep purple and painful to the touch. He can't see the back of his head in his reflection on the bathroom mirror, but it hurts enough that he knows it's bad. His cheekbone is cut open and is scabbing around the edges, another splotch of sickly purple blooming where he had been hit. He looks back at his reflection, sees the tears in his eyes, and that's when he realizes that he's crying. Ashamed of himself, Louis turns away from the mirror and wipes at his tears until they stop falling from his eyes. An alteration of Ryan's voice booms in his mind, "Faggots just don't play football. Faggots cry like little babies." He wills himself to calm down, and walks across the hallway into his bedroom, going straight into his clothes drawers to find pajamas. After digging around, he pulls on a pair of clean boxers and searches for something warm, since he never turns the heater on in his apartment to save money. He finds a large sweatshirt at the bottom of his drawer and puts it on, letting its sleeves hang over his hands and it's hem fall past his thighs. With that, he crawls into bed and tugs the fluffy duvet up over his shoulders, falling fast asleep with the images of a certain tall boy with a pair of beautiful green eyes.

"No, Liam, I'm honestly just fine," Louis insists as he peels off his Nirvana t-shirt in the boys' locker room.

Liam sends him a look that says 'you're obviously not "just fine" if you got your head bashed into a locker and the shit kicked out of you by a human tank'. Rollin his eyes, Louis tugs on his football jersey.

"Have you forgotten that your whole body is basically black and blue?"

"Fuck, Liam, do you _think_ I've forgotten? Every breath I take is reminder enough," Louis scoffs, beginning to roll his socks on.

With a shake of his head, the brown-eyed boy. finishes tying his laces and hops off the bench.

"Don't be late again, or Styles is going to beat you even worse than Ryan did," he calls over his shoulder at Louis as he jogs out of the locker room.

Hurriedly, Louis slips in his shinguards and pulls on his cleats in record time, doing his laces as fast as his fingers can manage. There's still one more boy in the room with him, with a panicked expression on his face as he scrambles out of the door, just before Louis does. He tries his best to sprint to the sideline where all of the players are stood in a row with Harry standing expectantly in front of them, hands shoved in the pockets of his windbreaker, but every step he takes, his head throbs and spikes of pain shoot down his spine and hip. By the time he reaches the end of the line, there are tears burning in his eyes. Standing beside him is Isaiah, who shoots him a pitied look. But Louis doesn't want his pity. He's convinced himself that he's okay. Harry is walking in his slow, long and elegant strides down the line, and stops in front of Isaiah. His eyes scan the row of players, but never once land upon Louis.

"If you don't work hard this practice, you're not playing in tomorrow's game," he says, brutally honest, his green gaze hard and sharp, the way Louis was used to seeing it.

"Understood?"

All of the boys nod timidly. Louis watches as Harry eyes Ryan pointedly, his eyebrows furrowing and his lip curling into a frown. This makes Louis feel all weird inside, like Harry might actually care a little bit about him. But also, he's worried that Ryan will catch on, and find out that Louis snitched on him. Hopefully, Harry can keep it subtle so that he doesn't.

"Isaiah, lead warm ups," Harry orders, and just like that, everyone is scrambling into place and hurrying to get in line.

As Louis goes to follow his team, practically hopping on one leg, a large hand lays on his shoulder. He can't say he didn't expect it. Turning around, Louis looks up at Harry expectantly, with a bit of a scowl on his face. He wants to play and show Ryan that he's not some baby who will sit out of practice just because of a few bruises and cuts. Harry's grassy green eyes stare down at him, his eyebrows knitted together assertively as he drops his hand.

"You need to sit out," he demands, an Louis enjoys how his voice is so deep and rich, but he's not going to sit out.

"No," is all he can come up with, distracted by the way Harry let's out a huff and pushes his hand through his curls frustratedly as he says it.

"Get your arse on the bench, Tomlinson, before I put it there for you," Harry growls, his cold green eyes narrowing into slits.

Louis feels shivers snake down his spine as he briefly twists Harry's words into his own fantasy. A blush rushes to his cheeks as he realizes what he's doing, and Louis quickly averts his eyes, limping reluctantly and pathetically over to the bench, mostly to hide his face, that is now a bright pink. When he plops down on the bench with a pained grimace, Harry is watching him intently, with somewhat of a defiant smirk tugging up the corner of his lip. Louis glares at his lap and sits still for what seems like forever, watching Harry the entire time instead of the field as he paces across the field with his deliciously long and toned legs, his bottom lip pulled between his teeth and brows furrowed with strong concentration as he watches every move made by the players carefully. Louis watches him as he yells out orders, his lips perfectly pink and his slow-as-molasses accent visible as he speaks. He watches him when he rakes his fingers through his curly hair and tugs at the ends ever so slightly. Louis wishes he could do that for him. The whole practice, Harry is all that Louis pays attention to, and it's nice that way.

Finally, Harry summons the team--who rush over to him with an embarrassing eagerness--with a simple wave of his hand, and they form a neat circle around him. Harry looks like their king. He speaks to them with an intense and serious look on his face, doing gestures with his big hands that look intimidating. After a few minutes of his lecture, the players jog over to the bench where Louis is sitting patiently, each of their faces looking rather pale and stricken. He guesses that Harry must have been tough on them. The boys grab their water bottles, Liam shooting Louis a sorry look, and quickly file off of the field and into the locker room. Louis stays though, because he needs to ask Harry something. He wants to play in tomorrow's game so fucking badly, because he knows that he's good enough to help the team out, and they could use it. Louis hoists himself off of the bench and winces on his way to the center of the field, where Harry is hunched over his phone, holding it so close to his face that it almost bumps his nose. He must be blind or something. When Louis stops in front of him, he doesn't even look up. Only when he clears his throat stubbornly do Harry's eyes flick up to meet his, their pure, stunning green enough to make Louis momentarily forget what he was going to say. He gathers his thoughts after a second of just standing there with his mouth open like an idiot and tries to sound assertive.

"You're going to let me play tomorrow, right?" He says, jutting his hip out to the side and placing a sassy hand on it.

An expression comes across Harry's face where his eyebrows furrow and his nose scrunches up a little and it's probably supposed to make him look irritated, but to Louis he just looks fucking cute.

"Why would I?" He retorts, glancing back at his phone.

Louis immediately dismisses any thought about Harry being adorable and frowns in disbelief at his rudeness.

"Um, because, I can," Louis replies sassily enough to make Harry look up from his phone.

"Oh, really?" He says, raising an eyebrow. "Because last time I checked, you couldn't even walk two steps without wincing."

For a second, Louis stops, because that statement could possibly be quite true, but he decided to continue on for the sake of his argument.

"Well I can now," Louis snaps, annoyed when Harry rolls his eyes. "And therefore, I am playing in the game tomorrow."

With that, Harry finally looks up from his phone, his eyes now focused solely and intently on Louis, and somehow it makes his skin crawl and he feels like he is so transparent that Harry can see right through him. He notices a small smirk curling up the corner of Harry's mouth, a shadow of a dimple showing

"What makes you think that you're the one in charge?" He says, his voice so deep and surprisingly quiet, now.

Looking into his eyes is so intense that it feels like looking into the sun, so Louis has to look away. He isn't sure what to say at all, and he has found that that never happens to him unless he's talking to Harry.

"Um-"

"I'm your coach, Louis Tomlinson, and I can make you do whatever I want, do you understand that?"

Louis feels breathless, and Harry's smirk is still planted on his face like he enjoys condescending Louis. Which Louis knows he does, because it's not the first time that he has done it. But Louis never knows how to react, or how he should feel when Harry does this. Sometimes it turns him on, actually, which is kind of insanely embarrassing.

Harry doesn't wait for him to respond. But something changes about him, his shoulders drop and his eyes soften for just a moment, and he looks a little exhausted.

"Listen, Louis, if you're going to be stubborn, or whatever, just...like, rest up and take care of yourself, alright?" He says with a sigh. "Then tomorrow if you're better, I'll think about letting you play."

"W-well, fine," Louis says, almost snappily. "I'm perfectly fine, anyway, though."

Harry rolls his eyes and scoffs. "Right."

But before Harry can boss him around or turn him on any more than he already has, Louis spins on his heel and struts away, trying desperately hard not to limp because he knows that Harry is watching. And with that, Louis snatches his water bottle from the bench and walks straight through the door of the locker room without a second look back. Tomorrow, he's not going to care about whatever Harry want him to do, because _someone_ needs to teach him that he isn't in charge of everyone. And Louis figures that he can be that person.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry for not updating earlier, school is shit wbk. BUT here it is so....enjoy fuckers. Also, the author that’s writing the continuation of the book is ill sadly and they don’t feel well, and so i’m sorry but for a while there wont be updates :’)

It's the last ten minutes of the second half. Louis feels the most frustrated that he has ever been in his life as he watches the opposing team move the ball effortlessly satright through both the line of the midfield and the line of defense, achieving their second goal easily. And he also feels sorry for Liam, because he really is trying to save the team, but the just don't know how to play together. Louis knows that if he was out there, he could do so much for the team. And when Louis looks at Harry, who is crouching near the sideline with his lips in a tight line and his eyebrows pulled together in an expression of anger and contemplation, he thinks that he knows it, too, So being the stubborn and persistent person he is, Louis pushes himself off of the bench and approaches his coach with confidence in his step.

"Coach Styles, I'd really like to _actually_ play now," he says in a mock tone of politeness.

Sensing his presence, Harry loos up at him with those penetrating green eyes, standing from his crouch and instantly going from a foot shorter than Louis to a foot taller. Something about this change and the way that his coach is sizing him up makes Louis' confidence waver. When he speaks his voice is low and challenging.

"If you are so insistent, then why should I put you in?"

Louis doesn't take more than a second to regain control. "Because I can score," he retorts simply, yet with an attitude.

By the narrow in Harry's green eyes and the way his heart lips pucker as he chews at the inside of his cheek, Louis can tell that he's the at least contemplating it.

"How many did you score last season?" Harry finally questions, a doubtful tone in his voice.

"Twelve in eight matches," Louis replies, trying to hide his pride.

Harry hesitates, his eyes locked on Louis with an uncertain look for so long that Louis almost thinks he's going to send his arse right back to the bench.

"Go in for Isaiah," he orders quickly, like he'l regret it later. "If you disappoint me, you'll owe me."

Working desperately hard to keep a straight face, despite the joy and relief, Louis jogs to the half line and waits eagerly for the assistant referee to call him in. He can feel the adrenaline pumping through his veins before he even steps foot on the pitch, and something just tells him that he is going to do well. And he was right.

After only two minutes of being in play, Louis scores a goal. A beautiful one, at that. It was off of a counter attack; he executed a clean give-and-go down the middle with Stan around the last defender and drove the ball straight into the back of the net for their first goal in the last eight minutes of the game. He doesn't even need to look over at Harry to see his reaction, because he already knows that it's exactly how he would've wanted it to be.

Just minutes later, an opposing defender bobbled with the ball just yards from the box, which Louis stepped up and swiped from right under his feet, easily finding the left corner of the goal with a clean shot and achieving a tie.

And--even though he himself didn't score--with three minutes left in the game, Louis performed a series of foot skills and maneuvered around three defenders like he did it in his sleep, then dishing a perfectly placed, perfectly paced cross off to the left striker who was able to take a one time shot for the win. He was nearly bursting with self pride as the final whistle sounded. Both teams jogged to the half line, forming two lines as they walked past each other and shook hands with the opposition before returning to their respective benches. As Louis followed the team as they crowded around Harry at the end of the game, he received a few pats on the back from those of his teammates who were actually decent people and not appalled by his homo/bisexuality. This time, when Harry spoke to the team, he actually bothered to listen.

"Hey, pay attention," he commanded over the chatter of the upbeat team, but he didn't sound harsh now. "After this game, I have realized your potential as a team, and your potential as individuals, as well. So now, I expect more of you," he adds, his green eyes pointedly finding Louis' in the crowd. "Keep it up."

The speech--if you could even call it that--was so brief that it was now apparent how hesitant Harry was to give a compliment...to anyone. It may have been small, but it was enough to impress Louis. He didn't think he had it in him.

"No school tomorrow, therefore, no practice. See you all on Monday, don't be late."

And the team breaks off into their cliques, exchanging back-slaps and comments on the game with one another as they begin slowly filing into the locker room to get their stuff and get the hell off of school grounds, ready to start a weekend of partying. So Louis finds Liam and Isaiah and catches up to them as they begin heading towards the locker room, too. When he approaches, he gives Liam and Isaiah each a clap on the shoulder.

"Good job, lads," he compliments them with a smile. "I'm so ready to get out of here."

Liam turns to him and gave him a knowing look.

"I know. The midterms right now are killing me."

"I'm really just in the mood for--"

"Tomlinson," a booming voice calls out from the field behind them just as they were about to enter the lockers.

Louis' heart either drops or jumps--he isn't quite sure--when he hears Harry calling for him. Part of him is nervous, and the other part is confident, but definitely, one part overrules the other. Needless to say, it isn't the latter. He gives Liam and Isaiah a smile--that was supposed to be apologetic, but probably ended up looking like a scared grimace-- and says goodbye before turning around and walking towards his coach, who stands near the bench, shoving his things into his duffel. Louis' stomach twists as he stops in front of him, but he forces himself to put on a brave face.

"Yeah," he says, but it's not sassy or mean, just neutral this time.

When Harry finishes packing and zipping up his duffel, he stands up tall and looks down at Louis, with a thinking look on his face, pulling his eyebrows together and his lip between his teeth. And now Louis feels his heart racing all over again, because _every single time_ Harry looks at him, it never fails to take his breath away. And now he realizes that Harry was speaking while he was staring, and feels his face get hot.

"U-uh, sorry, I missed that," he stutters, trying to seem casual even though his red cheeks are probably giving him away.

"Are you feeling okay?" Harry repeats, and Louis is slightly taken by surprise by this question.

"Y-yeah, I think so," he answers after a second, playing with his fingers.

"Your bruises are gone?"

"Um, no, actually, but they don't hurt as much," he says quietly, avoiding Harry's eyes because he finds himself getting embarrassed about the whole situation.

He got beat up because he is gay and pathetic, and then Harry had to come save him like he was some damsel in distress, and he just feels like he is so weak and defenseless, and it's really mortifying. But the way Harry's acting towards him doesn't make him feel embarrassed, and he is kind of grateful for it.

"Yeah, good," Harry mumbles absently, his eyes slowly moving around Louis' face. "This is looking better."

Louis' whole body seems to become electrified as Harry reaches his hand out and gently touches Louis' healing cut on his cheekbone, like he doesn't give it a second thought. Then his hand drops, and Louis tries not to stare at him as he stands perfectly still and breathes a "yeah" in reply. In this moment,

Harry's mossy eyes are softer than he usually gets to see them, and Louis tries to make it last, but after a moment, they harden back into their usual piercing green.

"You know, your persistent attitude can be quite admirable at times," Harry says, voice deep and husky in a way that has Louis fighting shivers. "But if you're not careful, it will get you into trouble."

Louis doesn't know what to say, or if he can say anything right now, because Harry has this look in his eye that he can't even explain, but it's alluring and hot and it makes Louis confused and tingly inside, and something about his word choice sends shivers down his limbs. He desperately struggles to sound like he has it together as he frantically creates a reply.

"I like to think of it as more of a harmless, yet aggressive way of living," Louis retorts quickly, mentally applauding himself for his clever response.

He doesn't know when it happens, but suddenly Harry is leaning in closer than before, so close that Louis can count each individual golden fleck in his green eyes and smell his peach and vanilla scent. And just like that, his heart is racing at one hundred miles an hour again. His eyes are narrowed, with that same observant look that they always seem to have, and his pink bottom lip is caught between his teeth again. When Harry speaks, his voice has that usual rough edge, but is soft and calm at the same time, enough to make Louis' insides churn.

"You have a lot of nerve, Louis Tomlinson."

The words themselves are challenging, but the way he says them doesn't sound like a threat, but like a _compliment_. An actual compliment, given to Louis from Harry. Louis stands frozen with shock, partly wanting to hide himself someplace, and partly with fear that if he moves one muscle, the whole moment will end. And of course, he has to just stare with wide eyes as Harry's tongue darts quickly across his lips.

"Interesting boy," Harry mumbles, as if he were talking to himself, and he normalizes the distance between them, either to Louis' relief or disappointment.

When Harry starts to grab his duffel bag and sling it easily over his shoulder, Louis can finally take a breath that he didn't realize he had been holding. But then Harry's sharp eyes are down on him again, seeming to stare straight into his very soul and existence.

"I'm impressed, Louis Tomlinson," he says, and Louis blinks up at him.

As Harry turns his back on him and turns briefly to call something over his shoulder, Louis waits in anticipation.

"Don't be late on Monday."

And he's gone.


End file.
